A Shower of P----s
by Garmonbozia
Summary: Malcolm Tucker sees a lot of people come and go around Whitehall. But please, don't worry - he's got enough bile to go about. - [Now featuring, by popular demand, Sherlock Holmes, with a special appearance by Olly Reeder. Warning: v. v. v. strong language in places, and not a little threat.]
1. Mycroft Holmes

Aw, look, look, it's him. Thon lanky fucking SIS wanker, strolling about like he owns the place. And what's that fucking umbrella all about, eh? Who does he think he is, fucking Mr Banks? No, no, I forgot, he was married, with children. He was an actual human being, not just a stretched-out streak of pond-scum that's took itself down to Jermyn Street. Oh, look, he's trying to smile! He's trying, bless him, look. Jesus Christ, it's like watching the second hand try to tick after the clock's stopped and trust me, mate, that clock has _stopped_, that clock stopped long ago, that clock never started if you asked me. Something went wrong there. That's a child that should have been miscarried. Nature should have looked at that forming up and said, Nah, wait, back-up, lads, we've made a fucking mess on this one, bleed that out the twat ASAP. But no, he survived. He probably talked his way round that and had the pending miscarriage shot and poured into the concrete of the extension they put up to build his nursery so he'd grow up on top of the reminder of his inborn powers. He _had_ to survive; the British Government isn't going to run its-fucking-self, after all, is it? Oh aye, he's fucking _built_ for this. None better.

Look at him, standing there, shaking hands, pretending he's a person. He's got the theme from The fucking Avengers playing in his head, all day every fucking day, on a _fucking loop_. You can see it, in there behind the eyes. Where a fucking _soul_ ought to be…


	2. Red Riding Hood

[ whatever anon wanker suggested this – challenge fucking accepted, right? And for future reference, if you're going to troll me, you need to get up very early in the morning. You need to get up last night, the way your mother knows you couldn't, if you think you're going to troll me, sunshine.]

Well, rub me down with lighter fluid, there she is.

Selling her fucking story, no doubt. Feminist icon does for big bad patriarchal wolf. Fashion-forward canine crusher single-handedly brings back capes.

But let me tell _you_ a little story now. The only fairytale going on round here is the one she just told whatever soft-cock G2-sidebar-interviewer spotted what a good thing looks like. Killed a wolf? Oh, aye, sure, with her bare fucking hands, her soft, skinny hands that've held nothing more dangerous than an iPad in all her oxygen wasting days, aye, yeah, that's exactly what she did.

_Bollocks_.

Up until last week there was a burly, axe-wielding Geordie would've took offence at hearing a story like that. But he mysteriously came into a small fucking fortune not one week ago and he's in fucking Thailand. That's a bit handy, isn't it, with all these lies about to come out on the front page of every paper.

Crimson avenger traps predator. The fucking Sun are going to be all fucking over this. They'll have her on page three next week with only a severed wolf's head to hide her utter lack of modesty.

Here's another part of the story that won't be on the News at fucking Six. Here's words you'll never hear out of George 'yeah, he's black, but it's okay 'cause he talks posh' Aligayah – it wasn't a _wolf_ she never killed either. It was a fucking chocolate Labrador belonged to her next door neighbour. And it never tried to bite her; her and the Geordie axeman (who, by the way, was in the act of shagging her brains out when the decision was fucking made) just wanted it to shut up barking.

But these are the joys of getting your story in first.

Next week, one distressed former Labrador owner will be taking to fucking _Points West_ or whatever regional sewage outlet services her, telling how she came home from picking up little Timmy and found two stoned neighbours at it doggy-style amongst the remains of the family pet. But it'll be too fucking late by then.

My advice to that poor single mother – you sue, love. You go right a-fucking-head and you sue the Scarlet Cunt-woman over there, because by then, it's not going to matter. By then she's going to be so fucking loaded off the back of this she's not even going to fucking _notice_. So you sue, you go right ahead and sue for all of it, before she snorts it all up her snout like Henry Hoover.

You get little Timmy a decent fucking psychiatrist while he's still young.

[A/N - At TSH - Lestrade will get done at some stage, hon, but I really don't want to work through the casts of Sherlock/DW/Hustle/Spooks etc so quickly. I want to have a bit of craic with this along the way.]


	3. Sherlock Holmes

"Oi! Olly. Get over here. Get over here now, or you'll miss it."

"Miss what?"

"A life lesson. A special educational event, direct from me to you."

"Oh, God…"

"Oliver Reeder, today is the day the prick-spotter supreme shares with you the benefit of his years of prick-spotting experience, in teaching you how to spot a prick. Look over here. Dead ahead. Y'see him? Here are certain factors that will help you, the decidedly-average young man in an old suit, spot a prick. Notice, if you will, the cautiously-casual, carefully-uncared-for mop of dark curls. The pasty, indoor skin. The stupid woollen coat which is just a bigger echo of the one his Mum used to send him to school in. Oh, look, you've got one too."

"…Yeah, very funny, Malcolm."

"Ah, I'm only joking. I'm not calling you a prick. You wear glasses you don't really need on top of it all; there's no need to call you a prick, every cell of your being marks you out as a prick. Him, on the other hand, he hides it. He masks his prick status under the guise of extreme intelligence, not knowing that supreme intelligence is not, in fact, an excuse for being a prick. People think it's the other way round, they think intelligence is the cause and prick is the effect, but they're wrong, they're very wrong."

"This isn't a lesson, Malcolm. I know all of this. It's on the blog… […] John Watson's blog. You don't read the blog?"

"Do I look to you like somebody that reads blogs, Olly? Do I look like the kind of twat that's got time to read the words that are created when a bit of some ex-army wankers brain dribbles out his nose and splatters on a computer keyboard? Actually, is John Watson there, can you see him? I've got a whole new _barrel_ of bile on reserve for just such a delightful fucking occasion. Have a squint on down the street there, Olly; I'll take somebody who looks like him, I'm not fussy."

"I… I don't see him."

"Oh well. Another time, McReeder. Don't be surprised if I give you a ring if he turns up. Somebody needs to hear that fucking beautiful event of projectile vomiting. I'm not sure it would be medically safe for me _not_ to say that out loud, y'know?"

* * *

[C'mon. Who's next to the block, eh? This axe'll go blunt if I don't start chopping soon]


	4. The Eleventh Doctor

[Alright, with two votes, it's the Doctor up for the chop. Eleventh, in this case. If, however, anybody's interested in When Capaldi Met Capaldi, it may be found at my tumblr (poisonsal). That was just a little _too_ meta for this.]

* * *

Alright, it's not often I have to ask this question. This question, for me, comes up about as often as 'How was it for you?' Not that I don't get any, you understand. Just that I don't give a toss. But to return to my point:

Who the fuck is this cunt?

Shows up here with a UNIT entourage? I could give you two fucking pages on what the fuck _UNIT_ think they're doing this far up the river. There's a reason we gave them that Tower, and it's so they'll fucking stay there. If they start wandering up here again, I'll be casting my vote to lock the loony bastards in there. Dealing with fucking extra-terrestrials? Need to deal with their fucking mental issues first, y'ask me.

There. That's the abstract of my two pages on what the fuck Unit think they're doing this far up the fucking river. Let's just leave it at that and move on to the business at hand, shall we?

Here, amongst a cavalcade of stupidly uniformed _UNIT_ _pricks_!, (no, I promise, that's it, I'm finished talking about those Fucked Mulders and Dana Skullfucks… I _am_, that's it, I'm finished!) is some fresh hell. It's got an all-over rubbery look, like something just cast out of plastercine in a children's playgroup. There's a lot of hair hanging off the front of its head, but none of it is eyebrow or facial hair. Whole thing looks like a giant twelve-year-old. It is wearing tweed and a bow-tie. That was the first thing I saw, actually. Nearly dismissed this whole fucking cataclysm as some House of Lords runaway situation. Somebody got away from his careworker for a bit, bless. Take him home, change his nappy, everything'll be hunky-fucking-dory.

But it doesn't add up, does it? Especially when you factor in the presence of… fuck, I said I was finished, didn't I? I had a good one there about what exactly these hopeless, miasmic messes, these crumpled tissues of wank, are UNITs _of_, but I said I was finished. Oh well. Never mind. I'm sure you'll make something up.

No, it doesn't add up. And then you take into account the last and most disgusting fact in all of this, and that's the look on this odd creature's face. He stares all round himself, looking at ceilings and floors and fucking plaster-moulded Victorian cornicing with his mouth open, all smiles, all full of the _idiot joy of existence_.

Please, God, there must be some arsehole in this building still clinging on to his old service revolver. Give it to me, I'll make all of this stop… Just for me, you understand. The rest of you can stay and fucking suffer.

None of it adds up. Or it doesn't seem to and then, right there, in the clear blue yonder at the top of an impossible, _soul-rending_ rage, everything clicks.

That's why it's UNIT, isn't it? (_Shut up, I never even fucking commented on them, and believe me, I could comment for days on those Manchurian Cuntidates!_)

Fuck me, that's why I don't know who he is.

The pricks _actually_ went and caught an alien…

* * *

[C'mon, c'mon, these are all too easy to hate! ...Or is that just Malc talking? Oh, which reminds me - C. , my sweet, I won't be doing Jim Moriarty here, for the sole and simple reason that it is my personal headcanon that he sometimes goes for drinks with Mal and Jamie, everybody's accents getting thicker and thicker until it's just noises and probably a fight.]


End file.
